


Fencing

by kikibug13



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Fencing, Fluff, Sadness, Wedding Night, early marital relations, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:05:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikibug13/pseuds/kikibug13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Adrienne unintentionally spies on Gilbert's early morning fencing lesson, neither of them know that it will begin a process of bonding that will help them for many, many years to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, months ago I saw [this post](http://kikibug13.tumblr.com/post/140581499203/the-history-of-fighting-old-school-fencing) and got this niggling idea. What if Adrienne was a very, very skilled fencer? She could do nothing much with it, of course, not out in the world, but... that does not mean that it had to be entirely wasted.
> 
> This is the fic that resulted in. 
> 
> The last chapter is set after they are released from Olmütz, so it will be sad. Read at your own peril.

Marie Adrienne Françoise de Noailles, the young Marquise de Lafayette (though not technically, not yet, since the marriage wasn't consummated, and there was that one nightmare she hated where it all came to nothing - and then she would get another letter from Gilbert and it wouldn't be that bad) was not exactly rebellious. She did have her own opinions and views of the world, and her nearly as young husband indulged her a lot (even with his clear frustration, at the arranged marriage, at being kept from each other, even at how much he could see she cared more for him than he for her), listening - well, reading - to them all and paying attention and commenting, and engaging in discussions, but for the most part she was an obedient daughter, to her father's great comfort. 

But she was also fourteen years old, and prohibited from going into certain parts of _her_ house, and was getting more than enough sleep so was awake early, early in the morning. It wasn't a conscious decision, either, she just put on her old fencing outfit, because it was the easiest thing to move in that she owned, and quietly padded out of her room to look around. 

It was not that she was planning to do anything inappropriate. Her mother's decrees were, she was sure, truly for her own good. And she had to admit that there was something very sweet in the anticipation, in the longing, not to mention how perfectly delightful her husband's letters were. She only wanted to visit parts of her home that she had not been permitted in these _weeks_. In fact, very purposefully she climbed past the floor on which she knew Gilbert's rooms were. Truly, she was not looking for him. She was not breaking the rules.

... but the next floor was not as quiet as she expected, and the muffled sounds drew her around the corner to investigate.

Only to make her stop, sudden jealousy flaring in her heart. That was _her_ fencing room! The one where she stopped tripping over her own limbs in her footwork, the one where she first learned how to deliver a stroke with the tip of her sword, instead the edge, and now not only was she _forbidden_ from using it, but it was used by somebody _else_! 

It took until she'd snuck into the familiar attendant's room and peering through the observation gap - she knew for a fact there had always been a servant here ready to fetch a doctor for the first five years of her lessons, and she'd been so furious when she'd found out - that she realized who the training room was now given to. 

Oh. 

Of course. 

Somehow, seeing her husband hard at work didn't take away all her anger, but made it sharper. It made sense, of course it did - he was already a ranked soldier, he needed constant training - but it was still her room, and the new one was more hastily equipped. (That also made sense, she needed so much less security now, her control was better - she was very far from a beginner, and so was her sister who'd wished to learn as well, so they didn't _need_ and much equipment, and, yet.)

She bit her lip, twisting the hem of the light skirt over the hose, and decided to not do anything about it now (she could always have words with _somebody_ later, though even now she was sure having _words_ with her mother just wouldn't go well). Instead, she watched him. 

He wasn't bad at it. His form was good, and he was fast, light on his feet, _smart_ , oh, she liked that he was smart about his attacks. And his defenses, too. The counterattacks were always different. It was fascinating, because the style he was fighting, and the style of his teacher, were so different from hers, and yet she could recognize everything that he did. 

It gave her a thrill, another thing that they shared.

Of course, she was just angry enough, still, that she could see weaknesses, too. She could see mistakes, or route combinations that her own teacher would not have permitted her. She could see his confidence and how it always hovered on the edge of blinding him, only tampered by his eagerness and enthusiasm. 

She snuck out and back towards her room when the lesson began to wind down. 

She didn't mention anything about it to anyone, nor did she write about it in her letter to him that day. And she came back to watch the next morning. And the next. And the one after that. 

Adrienne wasn't sure when she came up with the Plan, because it was such a good Plan. It took a moment in the afternoon when everyone was busy to sneak back into the fencing room and take away her old head-protection mask (it was almost too small, but if she twisted her hair just right as padding, it wasn't bad, and she could move) and she was going to be warm, with one of her father's long coats from the attic, but it wasn't going to tangle in her legs and yet they were covered, so there. 

It was going to work perfectly. 

She took a few more days of observation to make sure it was going to work. But, no, it was always the same thing. The teacher left, his paid-for time over, and Gilbert would stay behind and practice any new combinations he'd learned over the past few days. She could not help being pleased, that he applied himself to his learning, despite his teacher being clearly impressed by who he was and not _making_ him do it.

But from days and days of watching him, she had reached one conclusion.

He could do _better_.

Adrienne waited until his teacher had left, settled the mask over her braided and coiled hair, buttoned down the coat, and stepped into the practice room. 

Gilbert spun around at the sound of her first step. Good. Paying attention to his surroundings was good. His rich mouth turned down, and a line etched between his eyebrows, the sword pointed at her in an unwavering steadiness. 

"Who are you, what are you doing here, and who let you in this house?"

_Oh._ He was trying to protect her home from an intruder. _So sweet, husband mine..._ She tucked her chin forward, instead of contemplating the new revelation. 

"I mean no harm to any of the residence. If I promise to not even attempt to hurt anyone, will you spar with me?"

She was proud of herself, for not letting her "lowered" voice quiver. Or squeak. 

Gilbert tilted his head to one side, then made an elaborate greeting with a few efficient swishes of the sword, shrugged a shoulder, and nodded towards the practice blades. "Do remember that if you have an ally who goes hurting people here, or stealing, I will cut the price of that promise from your own flesh."

Adrienne picked her second-usual blade - the first one was in her own, small, boring training room, she might bring it another time - and turned to return his salute, trying to make sure her giggle did not cross the mask or anything. 

"You mean, milord, that you will _try_. Whether you will succeed, now that is something entirely different. Defend yourself!"

The first three touches were almost hilariously easy, even if she hadn't warmed up properly - but then, she'd known exactly what to go after, and he was already tired. She could see the way his teeth were clenched under the graceful curve of his cheek, tight curls bouncing where they weren't sweat-slickened. His shirt clung to his body in places, and his eyes shone. Her fourth attack was actually repelled - sloppily, but he managed to spot what she was going for. The fifth, she touched him again. 

Gilbert took a shaky breath, spun out of reach, his eyes narrowed. "Can you do that one again, please? You have proved your point, and though I feel ashamed to be so shown down by a boy younger than myself," _hah!_ "I would rather learn than reject the opportunity for pride. Please."

She made sure that her bow was small and short, even if from the waist. Her heart was beating hard in her throat. This. This was the boy she had fallen for almost from their first meeting. This was the husband she was falling in love with more and more with each letter, with each day. Not 'one of the richest men in our country' - though her skill with finance did make her appreciate just how much richer than most he was - and not the growing soldier. The man who would learn, despite all the reasons he might have to ignore what was right in front of him.

"That is my reason for seeking you out. Let us proceed, milord."

And they did, until she was definitely far too warm in the long coat, and he was visibly starting to tire, but neither of them thought of stopping. Not until the bell for breakfast rang, and Adrienne sucked a breath in. 

"I believe you are expected elsewhere, milord."

He tilted his head, one curly strand falling across his forehead, and she wanted to wrap it around her finger, tugging, soothing, after. It almost made her not hear his quiet swear, and almost forget herself and giggle _out loud_ at it. Or gasp. But he straightened, bowed to her, and murmured, "by your leave, sir!" before dashing off, not waiting for a reply. 

She stayed still until his door downstairs slammed shut, and took of running in the opposite direction to her own chamber. After brief rummaging, she slipped off the hose, put on her fluffiest, ruffliest robe over a dress, covering how ill attired she was, and splashed some water over her face. Made her eyes droop, so she could show she was unwell this morning, thus apologizing for her tardiness. 

Her mother was, naturally, suspicious, but there was a tremble to her hand (from the sword, but who would suspect that?) and her skin was beading with sweat still, so her word was accepted. Adrienne could not resist thinking about the state _her husband_ had to be in, but she could not see him. Could not ask. 

The next day was easier. She managed to remember herself before the bell rang, giving them both enough time to properly change and be presentable, but she could not resist stopping him before he had quite made it out of the room. 

"Oh, and milord?"

"Yes?" She could tell by his hopeful expression that he was hoping that she'd tell him who she was, or even unmask herself. It made the smirk in her voice so much more natural. 

"Tie back your hair. _Some_ body will use it against you, and you might regret that."

"Nobody would touch my hair in a fight!"

_Hah._

She did, of course, the morning after, yanking his head so hard that he had to drop his sword to use both hands to try to pry her hand away from it. She gave another pull, before letting him go and spinning out of reach. "Tie back your hair, milord."

He had, the next morning. It brought up his high cheekbones, and, yes, her husband was so very handsome. She almost regretted suggesting it, for how distracting the result was, but - he needed to fight better, if he was going to be in a war. Any war. 

This was better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Adrienne's mother really thought she could keep them apart for long... well. She was wrong.

Months went by, like that. Well, sort of like that. Adrienne's father arranged for Gilbert to go off and have some proper training, as the Musketeers were apparently more a decorative corps than actual fighting men, which made little sense to her, but what could she say? Gilbert was away weeks at a time, but when he was home, she always came there. Once, she overheard the servants talking about him asking after a boy who could swordfight on the house staff, but since she had been very discreet, there was little anyone could have told him. 

It was after one of those absences that she... made her decision. 

He was definitely agitated, making more mistakes, distracted. At the same time, he was more eager than ever to learn more, and the way he was pushing himself made his slender chest heave just so, made him move so that she--

Adrienne found herself wanting to peel off the soaked shirt, and run her fingers along the skin underneath. Feel the flex and release of muscles as he breathed. See ... see what could follow from that. 

It made her cheeks flush under the mask, but it would be stupid to deny that she did want it. 

And it would not even be wrong to have it. 

She waited until one of their breaks, and then crossed her arms. "Milord. Do you think you can climb up to a balcony on the second floor?" 

His interest snapped to her, and he frowned. "You want something taken from a room that is not yours?" 

She retorted, a little crossly, "it has been the better part of a year, milord the Marquis. I have appeared here appeared here faithfully, I have taught you and have let you improve, and do you still think that I am here to cause harm, to thieve and to hurt? I would have thought you more observant."

Gilbert's eyes narrowed, but he didn't back down. "I will not do anything inappropriate or wrong. Especially not in this house."

She was tempted, so very tempted, to retort, _fine, be that way_. Instead, she shrugged one shoulder. The long coat was so very comfortable to wear, now, even as the weather had turned cold enough that, unheated as the practice room was, it was a very good part of her attire. Especially when they were at rest. "Oh, will you not, now? We shall see."

Adrienne wrote her note to him that very day. It was simple and short, in handwriting he would recognize. Specifying which balcony was hers, and which her parents, so he would wait until their lights were down before he attempted anything. She did not sign it, not that it would have made much difference if either of her parents were to find it, it just made sense to her. But she merely took it with her, in one of the coat's long pockets, for many days, before she held it out for him, as he was passing her by to exit the room for the rest of his morning rituals. 

His eyebrows knitted together, and he took a moment before reaching up to take the letter. She stuffed her hand in the selfsame pocket before it could do something traitorous, like trembling. 

"Be gentle, milord." 

And she turned and ran, because - yes, she wanted him to come. She wanted _him_. But she was also terrified. 

Gilbert did not come to her that evening. He was nearly all silent the morning after that, a little slow but very focused. She did not try to ask. At breakfast, Adrienne's father frowned about something or other that Gilbert had done the night before, drunk, thoughtless, but - she thought, dashing and brave. 

He did come on the night after. Her hands did tremble as she unlatched her balcony door and let him in, fingers frozen with the late-season chill but chest heaving and cheeks darkened with the effort. She could feel her lips drying, because he was so, so handsome, and she felt - vulnerable, in her shift and robe, hair tumbling down along the pale fabric. He stood there, large eyes wide and open and took her in, and she could see... 

She could _see_ in his eyes when he decided that yes, he wanted this. He wanted her.

Gilbert swallowed and his voice shook a little. "Adrienne. Are you sure - do you want this?" 

"Yes." Her voice was not trembling. She smiled. "And even more sure because you asked." And, after a moment. "Are you sure? I remember you were less taken in than I by the dashing young soldier." 

He ducked his head, a curl falling across his face, and smiled. Embarrassed, she thought. "That was a long time ago. You have grown much dearer to me," she could feel her cheeks heating up, "and you have - it has been more than a year, you have..." he rubbed the back of his neck. "Either you have grown more beautiful, or I more capable of seeing you better. Yes, I do."

Adrienne licked her lips. "Good. Will you please build up the fire some, as we will maybe need the heat." If they were going to undress. She was definitely not sure what next, and neither did he seem particularly knowledgeable, so she was going to try to be reasonable. Like taking the moment to go lock her door, and extinguish the candles but for the two she usually used for reading. 

By the time she was done, he had taken off his coat and stood, tall and straight and tense, by the bed. So handsome that she really and truly forgot about being afraid, if for a moment. 

She walked up to him, raised her face, and smiled. "Husband mine, I do believe I now give you my permission to kiss me." It was a short, small expression in his eyes, but she knew it well. _Now I know what to do._

He leaned down, and sealed their lips together, and his mouth tasted of wine, a little, and of traces of dessert, and also of something else that was... weird but not bad, and the next thing she was aware of, her fingers were in his curls once more, while his arms were wrapped around her body, pressing her to him, and it felt so good. Confusing, but good. 

It was awkward, after that. She did not believe he had done it, or done it much, before, but he had probably heard stories. Taking off each other's clothing was strange, and the air, warm on the side of the fire and cool on the other one, felt strange over her skin when mixed with his eyes. But then his fingers were caressing her shoulder, down the curve of her breast, and the strangeness was replaced by something entirely new and different, a soft twist in the lower part of her stomach. 

More kisses and more touches and more fumbling with laces and then he was naked, too, and-- oh. 

Well, his muscles moved under his skin just as she had imagined, though the difference in their bodies was... 

His chest was flat, that much she should have guessed, what with the way his shirt tended to stick to his torso, but somehow her mind had not pointed out that it meant that he did not _have_ breasts, as such. But further down there was-- there was-- 

"Um." He licked his lips. "Are you still sure?" 

"Gilbert... I don't know what to _do_." 

He rubbed the back of his neck. "This. My - phallus." All right, a word she had actually seen written, if rarely pronounced. "It goes into you. Down - between your legs. I have heard that it may hurt." 

"I have heard that, too."

"So we take it slow, yes? And if it hurts to much, you will tell me." 

"Yes." 

She licked her lips, then reached up, splaying her hand on his chest. Felt his heartbeat, underneath, fast and fluttering, and stared at the sight of her palm over his skin. The hues of brown, warm in the candlelight, were different, but almost the same in darkness. 

She wanted to see how they would look in the daylight, too. 

On an impulse, she moved her hand sideways, and when her fingertip brushed his nipple, she could hear his breathing hitch, even though his eyes, attentive on her and heated, but also patient, didn't waver. He let her explore the texture his skin, the way he reacted, for a little bit, before his fingers trembled, and he reached up. Took her wrist gently, and directed her hand down until her fingers wrapped around his phallus. 

It was hard, and searing hot. The skin was different, kind of silkier. Straining. When she moved her hand, he made a noise, and she stilled but he shook his head. "No, please. Go on, that is - it is good." So she did, and his body was practically quivering. "May I - may I touch you, too? And kiss you?" 

She nodded, too fascinated to give it too much thought, and then his mouth was on the curve of her shoulder, and moving towards her throat, and the twist in her stomach tightened, a sort of fire lighting up under her skin, especially where his lips touched. When he sucked a little, over her pulse, it was her turn to make a noise, squeeze a little, and his lips were on hers, shushing her. 

Then her hands were on her waist, picking her up and laying her back on the bed, and he crawled over her and kissed her more, and she - let him. She let him spread her legs, which was awkward as her teaching had always been to keep her knees together, but with his hips between her knees, it was not bad. She let him rub his phallus over her stomach as she held on to him, as he kissed her and she felt his muscles move on his back, and then he sat back, trailing the tip of his phallus down, between her legs. It felt even more hot against her hair down there, and then against the soft and squishy bits in that...

"Oh." She twitched, and he stilled, eyes shooting up to her face. 

"Hurting?" 

"N-no. That felt good." At the front part of the cleft there. He nodded, and rubbed the tip right there a little more. She moaned quietly, and he threw her a small smile, teeth bright, eyes bright. Then went on down. 

He found the hole where he could go on pressing a little bit after that. It felt very strange and very firm, but it didn't hurt until he was pushing a little, and she whimpered. He stopped again. Pulled out a notch, then, eyes on her face this time, pressed more, but slowly, so slowly. One hand was holding his phallus steady, but the other came to caress her stomach, and then her breast, and rubbed her nipple, and the pain where he was mixed with a low throb that actually make her want to press more onto him, and she nodded. Squeezed her eyes--

And then the hurting was over. She looked up, and his eyes were very, very wide. His body was quivering, and she reached up. Stroked his cheek. 

"Are you - what is it?"

"It's like nothing I've felt. Tight and warm and. Adrienne, may I move?" 

She considered that for a moment. "Yes. But slowly."

He nodded, licked his lips, and thrust a little. 

_Oh._ The second time, she moaned again. "Really like. Nothing else. Go... go ahead."

He nodded, and kind of lowered himself closer to her, and she liked that because she could wrap her arms around him, and kiss him, swallowing both of their moans. It was still awkward and weird, and different, but she was moving and he was moving and the way his hips pushed harder and harder was good, and then his face sort of screwed up and he thrust hard, a few times, and then she could _feel_ him pulsing inside her as he whined, burying his face in her shoulder and shaking. And she was still on fire but he was not moving anymore, if still inside her, and ... it was okay. It was good.

His arms were trembling as he pushed himself up a little. His pupils were blown up, eyes so wide. And when he stroked her cheek, he smiled. "I... think that is it... My wife. My dearest, dearest treasure." He gasped, because she could feel herself clenching and releasing around him, her body going boneless. And then shaky. 

She had to get up to her pitcher and basin of water, and wipe herself down, from the mixture of blood and something white that ran down the inside of her thighs, after a little bit. Not very much blood. He was half asleep when she returned to the bed, and she eyed her balcony and slipped under the covers with him. "You can go later, can you not?"

"Mm. Later." 

Her hair was going to be a mess if she did not braid it for sleep, but she did not want to move, not when his arm was around her waist and he was pressing her to his chest and... it had been a mess before. She would comb the snarls out in the morning. 

Sleep resulted in some soreness, but she was more relaxed when she drifted back into consciousness with his breath kind of uneven on her hair. "Are you awake?" 

"Yes." 

"It is early." She could see the outline of her clock's hands in the dying embers of her fireplace. "Do you want to go?"

He was quiet. "No. Yes. I do not know. I should probably go and prepare for my swords teacher."

"Only for that?" 

"It does not seem enough to want me to leave this bed."

She smiled, then turned her head so she could see his face. His eyes were so soft on her that it sent a tingle all the way down to her toes. "Perhaps you should all the same... milord."

The moment when he registered what she had just told him. He gasped, eyes going wider, and she barely restrained herself from giggling. It was so good, so good, with his face so expressive. 

"You? It was always you?" 

"Yes. Go, and be careful, and I will see you later?" 

"You will not get into trouble?" It took her a moment to realize that he meant... about this. About this night. 

She considered that for a moment, then she shrugged. "I am your wife. My mother can do little. And... you were gentle, my dear Gilbert. It was good. So good."

Still was. 

He nodded, and carefully let her go, put on his clothes, and went down the balcony. His breath was clearly visible in the moonlit air outside her window, and she watched him move from the inside of the glass panes, before he was on the ground and she closed her curtains. 

She brought the mask with her, after that morning, but once the door was closed, she did not wear it. If he thought it was going to get easier, now that he knew she was a girl, he was mistaken. 

If she thought that night was all that they could share, well. She was mistaken. It got much better, with practice. 

Just like fencing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the 'Underage' warning makes sense. They really were very young.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soldier on leave from his (first) war.

Gilbert walked in through the front door just as Adrienne had lowered herself to see if her daughter, who had been running across the foyer and tripped, had hurt herself. He just opened the door and walked in, and, from her spot on the floor, she could feel her heart lurching. 

He had grown more solid, his light, awkward tread turning certain. His cheeks were gaunt, but he had been ill before leaving, and a long voyage did not do well by anyone, but his shoulders were broader, and the heavy cloak he was wearing against the February chill fell around his figure gracefully. He was tired, so tired, she could see that in every line of his body, in every motion as he took in the entry hall that was probably both familiar and strange. But he was not weak. Her gawky husband had grown into a man, and it turned her mouth dry, both with worry and attraction. 

Finally, his eyes reached the two of them - they were half-hidden behind the old coat-hanger that Anastasie had tripped over in the first place, the large claw-like 'feet' of it solid on the marble floor, and the toddler whimpered and shifted to hide behind her, frightened and shy of strangers, as always, the probable bruise forgotten. Adrienne merely held his eyes for a long moment, and smiled. 

Even while his eyes flicked to their daughter with worry, after, she could feel tension leave him, slowly. Some of it, anyway. 

She rose to her feet, Anastasie hiding behind (and holding on to) her skirt, and started moving closer. He let the door close behind him, cutting off the worst of the draft, and almost ran to her, his long legs eating up the span of distance between them along the marble. 

His hands were cold, as he took hers in them, but his eyes. His eyes were warm, scorching, even, and her smile up at him reached down to her own heart, warming it as it had not been warmed in almost two years. 

"We did not know when exactly to expect you." 

"I rushed ahead of my baggage. Are you... Adrienne, my dearest, dearest love. Are you well."

"I am well. And you? Was the travel agreeable?" 

"Not at all, it is February. But arriving is." 

He was different than how he had been when he left. He was the same, at the same time. She could barely think about taking her eyes away from his face. But there were were things to be done, and she wanted to make sure the rest of the tension would leave his shoulders, drain from his eyes. Standing in the foyer would not do this. 

So Adrienne took a breath, squeezing his fingers. 

"Gilbert" She inclined her head towards her side, where a small dark head was peeking around her skirt. "May I present to you our daughter," and the pain flashed through her again, as if his presence was determined to toss her back into the awareness of loss, because there was only one daughter now, "Anastasie." She let go of one of his hands, reaching without looking to rest it on top of the girl's head. "My dear, please step forward to meet your father."

"Father?" The girl was looking up at her questioningly, only at her. "As, my Papa?" 

"Yes. Your very own Papa."

Anastasie reached up to hold her mother's hand, squeezing her finger too tightly, and finally stepped away from behind the skirts, neck craned as he was looking up at Gilbert. "Hello, P-- M. Papa."

Gilbert... Gilbert might have laughed at that, if his eyes were not filled with tears. His other hand squeezed hers, and he murmured a quick, "I am sorry," twisting her heart more with these three words, made alive by his breath, than with all the words he had written over the years. All of them heartfelt, but it made a difference that he was here. That she could see his grief over the loss of Henriette just as she could feel her own. She choked, and shook a little, and it was a good thing that Gilbert was going down, one knee on the ground, so that Anastasie could see him better. 

"Hello, Miss Anastasie." She was not yet two, but she giggled all the same, less at the politeness than the combination of his tone and his eyes, oh, Adrienne knew that combination, only it was somehow _more_ , now. "But would be better if I just call you Anastasie, and you me Papa, no? Does that seem like something you can do?" 

After some time of consideration, Anastasie nodded. Then Gilbert smiled and she scurried away in the direction of the nursery. Adrienne watched her until she crossed the threshold to that room - the nursery was on the ground floor, even if her bedroom was upstairs - and reached her hand to trail her fingers along Gilbert's jaw, his travel-unkempt beard tickling her fingers. He looked up at her, still on one knee, and her heart gave a twist. 

_Lord, I have missed him so much._ It was so much like her heart finally beating whole again that she did not know what to do with herself. (The sorrow was new and deep again, but then, so was the joy...) 

"Gilbert. The first floor salon has the fireplace going. Please go there while I make sure things are prepared for you to retire until dinner. Yes?" He was so weary. A little bit of rest would do him good. 

He turned his face a little, so his cheek pressed against her hand, and nodded, rising to his feet. He swayed a little, half from being tired and half from being unsure whether he could hold her right then and there, before he nodded again, smiling, a little of the awkward boy he had been floating up to the surface, and headed up the stairs. 

She needed a moment to compose herself, before she looked in on the nursery, the nanny watchful over her suddenly overexcited charge, and headed to the kitchen to let Eugene, cook and unofficial chief of her staff, know there would be another person for dinner, and they should see about procuring an attendant for the master of the house. Gilbert was home. By the time she had told the maid to get started on his room, she was smiling. 

Practical matters attended, she went up the stairs to join him while the room was being readied. He had shed his cloak and was half-lounging on the sofa, one arm thrown over his eyes, and she went to sit beside him. He peered at her, then reached a hand to hold hers, but the slight tremor let her know: he appreciated her presence, but was not up to being good company himself. 

That was all right. He was there. They waited in silence until the maid let her know that the room was ready, and they walked to it, still silent. He managed a smile for her, his dark skin taking by now an ashen hue, and she only said, "I will send somebody to wake you up half an hour before dinner. Do try to sleep until then." 

"Thank you, my dearest. We will talk later?" 

"Of course we will." 

He squeezed her hand, and slipped into the room, his tread still steadier than it had been before he'd left, but his eagerness to rest clear. 

Three hours or so of sleep had not fixed the situation, but they had been clearly needed, in a good bed and with no responsibility, for his eyes had regained some of their lustre when met again for dinner, and his step had a little skip again. On the other hand, renewed energy had returned to him, apparently, the awareness of complications, such as guilt, and their conversation was warm, but stilted, awkward. 

She tried to breach the ice, but words... words were always tangled up. The inspiration struck as she was finishing with dessert, watching him clench and relax his primary hand. 

"Gilbert? Will you come spar with me?" 

This was not her father's house, but she still had a room fully equipped, and practiced daily, not in the least remembering their 'lessons' from so many years ago. 

He frowned at her for a moment, then realization dawned, lit his face. He considered it for a moment, and smiled. 

"Tonight?" 

"I will have them light candles there while we change. I hope your practice clothes from before you left are not too uncomfortable." He had outpaced his baggage in his rush to get here, and that meant that he would have to do with his old clothes until a tailor came to see him tomorrow, and could do his work. 

"Even if they do, I do not mind that." 

She inclined her head. 

His smile kept her from rising to make the arrangement immediately. "It made a difference, you know." 

"What did?" 

"Our sparring. Fighting... is nothing like the fencing we practice here." The shadows deepened, in his eyes, and yes, this had also been one of the reason why their conversation had been stilted, all the things he had lived through, life and death and pain and loss and victory and sickness and health, and possibly, if she was reading him correctly, pleasure and joy as well, oh, Gilbert, and guilt over that. "But you taught me to keep moving and keep thinking, because I could never outguess you even when I tried, and that... that was what made a difference in the field of battle."

Her mouth was dry again, and she reached for her water, without taking her eyes off of him. Everything that he had lived through clung to him, not dimming his light but still obscuring it a little. It made her heart ache, but it made him more attractive, too, somehow. As though she had ever needed for him to be _more_ so. 

"Then let us make ready to see if I can surprise you yet again. Yes?" 

"Yes." He smiled, and he was still, a little, the boy that he had been, once upon a time. 

Not so much while they had swords in their hands, however. He was darker, more forceful, more brutal, less graceful, even as he tried to adhere to the forms they had both learned. It was not quite working, his eyes clouding with memories.

So she left the familiar forms, too. She stepped behind his line of defense, with the same deftness as she always could (the fear in his eyes, helpless, was enough to make it difficult), and threw her weight against him. She was shorter and slighter, noticeably now, but he had not expected that and ended up stepping back, pressing his back against the wall as she pressed herself flush to him.

He panted, hard, a few times, before his eyes focused on hers, and something snapped. 

Their swords clattered on the hardwood floor almost simultaneously, and she reached up for him as he leaned down, kissing her with all the love and all the darkness that these months and months apart had built up. And she kissed back. 

He reached up to unclasp her hair, making it cascade down her back as it unwound from its twist. Long fingers slid into it, against her scalp, and she shuddered. 

"Adrienne..." 

"Yes." He did not need to put the question into words, she could feel his question, hard and familiar, pressing through layers of fabric towards her. "Yes, Gilbert. Yes."

"Here?" 

"Here." 

She ended up with her back against the wall, tights discarded on the floor, shirt unlaced to open up skin for his rich lips to caress (to possess), his breeches half lowered, one shoulder revealed for her to sink her nails, and later her teeth, into. His hips moved hard and fast, and then, when she cried out, slower but deeper, and her body was exploding again by the time he shivered, buried himself into her, and cried wordlessly into her hair. 

He let her down to the floor carefully, and she slipped on the tights before she could think better of that. 

"Join me tonight?" His voice was still lovemaking-warm, unsteady. 

Despite her all shakiness, she managed a good look up through her eyelashes, and stepped up to wrap her arms around his neck again. 

"Tonight, and all the nights of my life when it is possible. Yes, Gilbert." 

He clung to her like a child, when they reached his bed. He slept, deeply, and held on to her like either of her daughters would, except not, for his body was long and lean and hard and big. Her heart ached for his nightmares even as it sang for the fact that he was there.

Gilbert had come home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of recovery after Olmütz.

The day before had been a very bad day. She knew it had been, but even if she somehow failed to realize, there would be the eyes of her daughter, the eyes of her husband, telling her how worried they were. 

(Telling her how much he blamed himself, and she could not tell him that he was wrong in a way that he would believe her. She would not have gotten her blood poisoned if not for him. 

It was wrong, because she would not have been this kind of alive that she was, if not for him.)

While this ordeal was making her waste away, his lack of activity had turned his strong body soft and fat, and he quite hated it, she could see that. But his own health was not that good as to warrant the proper exercise regimen he had been used to. 

Still, after breakfast - or, after he excused himself from breakfast, and after he made sure that today he was going to be _needed_ somewhat less - he eyed the closed, trees-surrounded backyard of the house they were resting at before attempting their trip back to France, and then went to change into as light clothes as he could find, borrowing a sword and stepping out in the dappled sunlight. 

Adrienne carefully, slowly finished her own breakfast. She wished to follow, of course, but she needed the nourishment, and trying to eat too fast had turned, they all knew after a few days, to be a horrible idea. 

When she was done, she murmured her request to Anastasie, who almost made to raise her eyebrows, before her eyes, for the first time in many weeks, Adrienne knew, brightened. 

Anastasie made to set the reclining chair up, quietly, herself, while Adrienne took the time to rest and gauge if she could do as much as she wanted to. Even if it was so, so little - only to sit on the back porch of the house and watch as Gilbert went through the motions the two of them had practiced so many times over so many years...

Her eyes misted, and she rubbed them carefully before Anastasie could return and see the little droplets forming on her eyelashes. She truly did detest the current state of her body. She wanted nothing more than find another sword, or even a long enough stick, and go out to spar with him until they were both breathless, and then more, and more, until their limbs were trembling. (That would not have taken them long, even if she could do it, not after years of not holding anything like a weapon. But it would have felt so good.) 

She sighed, reaching up to sip more water until Anastasie was ready. He was probably too busy, too focused on the forms, as he was prone to get, for she heard nothing of him asking their daughter about what she was doing. In a few minutes, Anastasie came in, gathered her shawl, and helped her stand up. They walked, slowly, and Adrienne was glad that she only got somewhat lightheaded with the exertion. When she was settled on the chair on the porch, the sweet wind bringing summer scents to her too-sensitive nose, she needed minutes, long and laborious, to rest from the short walk and be able to see properly.

When she did, however, the sight was worth it. 

Gilbert's hair was tied up in the ponytail she had made him use for fighting. It was a little longer than it had used to, but he had been too focused on her to get a proper trimming since that had become possible. The little curls bounced strangely as he lunged and retreated, counterattacked and defended himself. His cheeks were flushed, and sweat still stuck his shirt to his chest as it had that very first morning. 

It was more beautiful a sight than she had imagined she could see in the last - years. Two, at least, she thought, since the despair truly set in. 

It had never set in for him, not truly, but he had fought valiantly to make it so. Her bright, beautiful, dedicated husband, the man who did not get broken by defeats, by overturned hopes, by prison. No, he was not the innocent boy who had sailed away to glory on the hope of freedom, he was too sad for that boy, but he was still so, so full of light. She swallowed, and found herself allowing the warmth to seep into her, chasing away the dankness of the cell that had been most of her world for so long. 

Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she managed to push herself into sitting up a little. Watched him. 

His footwork was good and steady, even in the soft soil of the garden, it was certain. She thought that maybe, when nobody could object, he might have practiced it in his cell. Some of it, at least. 

The tip of the sword, however...

"Gilbert. Extend the arm." 

He swung around so quickly that he almost dropped the sword. If she wasn't sure she would start coughing, or maybe throwing up, she would have giggled, just a little. 

But then his eyes met hers. It was a jolt, like energy she had not had in many months returning to her. 

He had never lost hope, or the light that was so vital for him. But he _had_ lost something, in those long days and longer nights forgotten by the world. Perhaps it was the ability to not only barely not drown, but to uplift others as well. Perhaps the satisfaction of accomplishing something that he _wanted_. Something. But here it was, awake again with the sword in his hand and her voice calling instructions, and it felt so right. 

He watched for a few heartbeats, then nodded. Then gave her a full salute with the sword. 

Adrienne felt her eyes widen. Then she tilted her chin up. 

She called the movements that she would have made if she could have. And he fought off of them. She called corrections to his pose and technique, and he corrected them. 

By the time his arm was trembling from the exercise it had grown unused to, she was lightheaded again, and leaned back, pressing a hand to her forehead as she tried to restore her own breathing. Without giving in to the nausea. 

Then he was there, one knee by the side of her chair, his arm wrapped ever so gently around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, the warmth of him, the scent of his sweat, familiar and _right_ , undistorted by the poison in her veins. It still took her long minutes to recover enough to brave opening her eyes, but it was easier, listening to the way his panting smoothed into normal breathing.

She looked up at him, and his eyes were dark with concern, but not - not despairing. There was a spark of their usual way of looking at her, and that made her smile. His eyes widened in surprised, and then those rich lips, chapped, turned up in that smile she loved so much. That smile she had missed so much. 

"Hey."

"Hey. How are you, my dearest love?" 

"Well enough. Well enough, my love." For what she could be... she was better than she had been in months. "And I shall be better."

His smile wavered, not in doubt, but in wonder. Since they had been released, since they had been properly reunited, she had not once spoken about the future. She had not allowed herself to, for it was too difficult to contemplate it. 

Or it _had_ been difficult to contemplate it.

Right now, with the midday sun turning his peppered hair different hues of gold, with his curls half out of their queue, with his eyes on her, she could believe in a future, for the first time. 

"I will make it so we can be us again, Gilbert. It will be all right. We will be well again."

His smile did not go away as his eyes brimmed and overflowed, and he leaned to press his lips against her brow, taking care to not dislodge the scarf covering her prison-shorn hair. (Hers had been cut off, a sign of humiliation. His had not, a sign that they did not care enough for him, or for his hygiene.) Then, ever so gently, to her lips, too. 

"I only need you."

"And me you shall have. Not a husk. Me."

He could see that it was taking her all that she currently had to not tremble, to be able to speak clearly. But he did not argue, he knew better. 

"I love you, Adrienne."

He always, always knew the right words to take the edge away. The sharp part of her excitement drained out of her, and she was left with only the determination, the part of it that she wanted and could use. 

She smiled again, for he deserved it more than any human being on this planet.

"I love you, too, Gilbert. I love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, folks. For now.


End file.
